Memory is more indelible than ink. (Anita Loos)
My friend C gets an A+ in the inspiration department. Several weeks ago she shared some of the challenges she faces caring for a disabled husband. Then she added a delicate and beautiful twist to her story. She added the sunshine known as gratitude and then rain fell—from my eyes. I haven’t forgotten that Tuesday morning circle with my friends.
C’s husband was once a brilliant, actually super-brilliant architect, who could play bridge or design one. Then, several years ago he developed a rare, bizarre condition. He has gradually lost the strength in his muscles as well as the strength of his mind. C cares for him night and day. Dialogue, true conversation, belongs to the past.
While C lives with complications, distractions, aggravations, and opportunities to scream-into-the-sky-about-the-injustices-of-life, she is one of the most balanced individuals I know. Perhaps this is because C gives because that is who she is. Sure, she would probably admit that life with someone who is becoming-a-child-but-doesn’t-know-it is something like trying to tame a rabid wolverine. But she maintains a sense of humor.
She watches her husband and sees the past, knows that those years are a real, tangible part of who they are now. Some of those times were serious, some tender, some humorous. It would not be fair for me to share those moments in a public forum, nor would it be necessary. Finding the human in all three categories isn’t difficult.
In my life some events were tragic, but something good happened later that never would have occurred if I had not walked that path. Moreover, the next oasis became sweeter. Then again some situations I thought would stand forever lasted as long as a puddle after a summer storm.
As I write these words and think about C, I mentally make a gratitude list. Okay, maybe that should be a written list so that the next time my own opportunities to scream-into-the-sky-about-the-injustices-of-life appears it won’t take as long for my stress level to decrease.
That need becomes amplified when another friend, J, stops by with a load of stuffed animals and children’s books for my grandchildren. J and I are almost the same age, born two weeks apart. Her husband has always been a kind, intelligent man. I enjoy being around him. A fellow writer. He is eleven years older than she is—no longer old from my point of view. He has been diagnosed with dementia. It is in the early stages. Hopefully medication will slow the inevitable process.
In the meantime he is focusing on his garden, creating something alive and beautiful in his own back yard. He knows, in time, he will recall nothing about it. He doesn’t know when. Perhaps snows this winter will cover more than ground next year. So J takes videos, savoring each dig, each bulb… each flower.
“Memory is more indelible than ink.” For some, not for all.
Both C and J celebrate life on a deep level. Not the kind of celebration that calls for the clicking of glasses and loud music, the kind that calls for a wonder about the past and an awareness of the sacredness of the present.
terrypetersen 